Obsessive Compulsiveness, Explored

I admit to being a perfectionist. Attention to detail was definitely learned from my mother. The lessons she taught about attending to quality and classic design have served me well. She was always impeccably dressed, her home was spotless and beautifully decorated. The word 'casual' had no place in her vocabulary. Putting a jar of ketchup or mayonnaise on the table was anathema to her; condiments were presented in lovely bowls. Always. I have relaxed that standard, but am particular about where I purchase my food and what I consume. Sometimes this is an innocent matter of mere preference, because food is meant to be enjoyed and I want to eat things that I feel taste yummy. Other times, my concern with fat content and calories feels a little compulsive and not a little bit scary.

I also admit to being preoccupied with my physical appearance. Okay, I am concerned about being fat. Again, this is inherited baggage from a mother who wasn't comfortable with her body. She regularly compared herself to other women. Her brother called her 'fatso,' which certainly didn't help either the relationship or mom's self image. I started exercising regularly in my late 20's and never stopped. My daily routine involves vigorous exercise and ingestion of a very healthy diet, which includes a little chocolate or ice cream every day. Most of the time, I feel content with my body. Perhaps I am not perfect, but I am just fine for me.

Perfection is not and cannot be an absolute. Perfection is relative. Absolute perfection cannot be achieved. My desk is a mess and I am okay with that. The rest of my house is beautiful. My husband bought me my favorite chocolate for Mother's day from The Chocolate Lady in Oyster Bay. I started out by eating small tastes of each piece, but realized that I was behaving like someone with an eating disorder. So, I went ahead and ate an entire piece. I enjoyed it. A lot. Nobody can be perfect. We can only be our best possible selves.

POSTSCRIPT:

It was not until I was in the middle of writing this that I realized that today is Mother's Day. My mother, Miriam Rosenblum Spiro, died in 2003. For many years, she lived with Parkinson's disease. Her decline into dementia became apparent in 1992. It was a long, long way down. Mom was a truly gracious lady. Her caregivers called her "Mother Miriam" and told me that mom always thanked them for their help. Ultimately, mom lost the ability to move or speak, but her caregivers made sure that Mother Miriam was always clean and as well-dressed as possible.

The quest for perfection was apparent in the way my mother selected her clothes. Mother chose her clothing like the finest of curators. She had a magical style that was infused into everything she wore. After her death, we cleared out her closets. It was an odd thing to see those clothes as they lay lifeless on her bed, as if their souls had departed. Without Mother Miriam, the spell had been broken. Once again, those clothes reverted to being mere pieces of cloth.